


Whatever This World Can Give To Me

by ailichi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (very brief mention in like chapter five), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, Lazy Mornings, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Canon, Scene: Aziraphale's Trial in Heaven (Good Omens), Scene: Crowley's Trial in Hell (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), WELL!, Yearning, a lot of it, before reading this fic you should refamiliarise yourself with the book of revelations, but I couldn’t find it in my heart to do that to them, but not slavish so in some minor respects, but obviously with deep yearning underneath it, crowley and aziraphale confess their love and then they kiss, enemies to friends to idiots to lovers, idiots to lovers, it’s more like, i’m not hawking anything revolutionary here, like ‘maurice’ by e. m. forster style, m - Freeform, slightly nsfw very much later maybe perhaps i'm not sure yet, there was meant to be repressed longing, thereafter it shall be post-canon, these idiots are in love. let’s talk about that., they’ve been waiting sixty centuries already
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2020-06-03 06:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19458316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailichi/pseuds/ailichi
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are in love (but you knew that already), and they have fought the good fight to stay together. While they might be wrapped in a warm world of exploratory intimacy, a storm is brewing. Adam recreated the world slightly better than it was before (Aziraphale's bookshop is restored with additional children's adventure stories, London seems cleaner and friendlier now, while the Bentley has remained exactly as it always has been, that kind of thing), but Heaven and Hell are planning to destroy one another again, and their leaders feel that the Earth and all life thereupon is so much collateral damage waiting to happen. Aziraphale and Crowley may have to give Heaven and Hell one final piece of advice.This story functions much as Good Omens itself does - it’s a supernatural adventure story, except the soft romantic bits are more important than the plot. Opens with love confessions and gradually works its way around to cosmic warfare, but then back to the soppy stuff again because I'm a little bit Out of Hand.





	1. The Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _”Happiness, not in another place but this place … not for another hour, but this hour.”_ ~ Walt Whitman

Aziraphale and Crowley sat down next to one another on the Oxford bus. 

Supernatural beings don’t exactly get tired, not physically, but they do still get fed up of stoicism and of trying to save the world. The mindlessness of watching the half-dark English countryside slide by the windows on a near-silent bus was more than enough to send Crowley into a sleep-like trance. He gradually slid further into his seat, until his knees hit back of the next chair. As he rested his head on the pane of glass, one might have been forgiven for thinking that he was watching Aziraphale. His gaze had always been steady, unnervingly so – especially when observing something. Aziraphale was taking off his blazer with as little wriggling about as possible, so as not to disturb Crowley. The tartan tie came off too, and his collar button was undone. Crowley had sometimes thought that Aziraphale’s clothes betrayed something of an over-compensation: as though one could become the perfect gentleman by sporting an appropriate suit. It seemed to say: _I am beyond reproach. I am good enough for anyone._ He shouldn’t have needed to prove that, Aziraphale. He worried too much. But then, Heavenliness was such a competition these days.

Tadfield and Oxford are not terribly far apart. They passed through towns like Hailey, Witney, and Eynsham, all pretty, under the forgiving dusklight – Lower Tadfield’s perfection started to look a little more comprehensible. The bus continued, and was soon driving down St. Gile’s Street in Oxford. The atmosphere of quiet, sustained, piety was such that Aziraphale felt an unexpected urge to alight from the bus and simply stay in Oxford, with Crowley, forever. Oxford had never been bombed during the Blitz – the Reich had likely been saving the town for later use. It could have been England’s Vichy. Every street corner had a chapel on it in this part of town, though, still standing.

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, remembering Crowley rescuing him (and his books of prophecy) that night in ’41. At the time, he had been stressed enough not to pay much mind to how much that must have hurt for Crowley – even through the heft of his not-exactly-stolen army boots, to walk on consecrated ground (especially in a church that old, that thriving) ... it must have been excruciating, he was just good at not letting it show. Crowley had done that for him, and never asked for thanks. Every moment with Crowley seemed to contradict what he had been taught to believe about demons. Even the torture he must have undergone in Hell – he had used that hard-won pain threshold to help a friend. Not even a friend – an angel, someone he had no reason whatsoever to keep trusting. And yet he did. It all seemed to confirm Aziraphale’s budding theory that angels and demons were, after all, more like humans than either group liked to admit. Now that same Crowley was pretending to nap beside him on a bus bound to London.

Crowley’s eyes exuded a sort of benign heat that shone through his blackout glasses. Aziraphale yearned to take them off, to look at him fully. To stop letting on that they didn’t want to look at one another and enjoy one another’s company – after sixty centuries of doing so – seemed impossible. Perhaps it was something no miracle could take care of, something that just needed effort. Emotional resilience: humans had it in spades, but angels and demons had to work harder for it. There was something he needed to say. Aziraphale coughed slightly, and said, almost too softly to hear: “ _Crowley._ ”

Only the faintest half-smile came onto Crowley’s face, but when it came, it stayed put. Aziraphale reached out with both hands and gently took the glasses, folding them up neatly and handing them back to Crowley. The smile slunk away. There was nobody on the bus to notice anything out of the ordinary, but Crowley couldn’t meet Aziraphale’s gaze. Yes, there were practical concerns which the glasses addressed – you couldn’t walk around the place – no, not even in central London – with the eyes of a snake glowing in your head. But in front of Aziraphale, he was also ashamed of how visible a testimony they were to his Fall. Being ashamed of anything was distinctly undemonic, and so to compound matters, he was embarrassed about feeling it. Maybe it was a relief to Aziraphale, to no longer feel like a proper angel. Crowley hadn’t felt like one in millennia, and the knowledge of the chasm between them was crushing. Knowing how messed up the celestial administration was didn’t make him long any less to be home. _I still pray,_ he wanted to say to his friend. _Every night._ The words wouldn’t come out. They didn’t seem fair, at this moment. Yet somehow Aziraphale understood how he felt.

“How come you called yourself Anthony?” Aziraphale asked. Silence, for a moment, before he lunged onwards. “Because all the Saint Anthonys – of Egypt, of Lerins, of Kiev, of Padua … They were all anchorites.” Crowley almost said something in the pause Aziraphale took for breath, but didn’t. “They tried to love God on their own, with no help or support. You don’t have to do it on your own, Crowley. Not now, nor ever again. Do you hear?” Aziraphale didn’t try to hide that he was on the verge of tears, but his voice remained quite steady.

Crowley couldn’t answer for a moment. He felt as if he had been tested to the point of destruction, and he wasn’t yet ready for kindness. _Sometimes,_ he thought, _you go too fast for me, Aziraphale._ Then:

“Thank you, Aziraphale. I … can’t tell you how much that means to me. I’d be lost without you.”

“I’d be lost without you, too. Especially if I was trying to get to Alpha Centauri.”

Crowley gave a muted laugh, and reached his hand out to Aziraphale. They held on to one another all the way to London, unsure of how the future would work out, but for the moment unconcerned. In fact, when they returned to find that Aziraphale’s bookshop was as immaculate as he had left (although perhaps a bit tidier, and with more Boy’s Own books), and that the Bentley was curled up outside the door of Crowley’s apartment (“No possible improvements, I shouldn’t think,” said Crowley), they discovered that, for the moment, at least, they had little reason to worry.

Two places to go, and neither of them wanted to part company. It was anticlimactic, and besides, neither place felt like home. Home was wherever they were together.

“You can stay here, if you like,” said Aziraphale, echoing the offer Crowley had first made him nearly fifty years ago.

Crowley nodded at the pavement. “I’d like to do that,” he said.

Aziraphale let them into the living quarters with a key that seemed far too old to work on such a modern door, almost medieval-looking. The Kabbala portal was still uncovered on the wooden floor, and they both hastily pulled the Turkish carpet over it again. 

“You’ll have a cup of tea,” said Aziraphale, “or coffee?”

“Tea. Please,” said Crowley, knowing that’s what Aziraphale would have rathered himself.

Aziraphale went into the kitchen and started making tea. He was fond of his old teapot, having gotten it in Ireland in the 1730s, and having made all his tea in it since. It was unmiraculous and infinitely reliable. Busy with tea leaves, infuser, sensible cups and saucers, little silver spoons, he hardly noticed that Crowley had followed him into the kitchen.

“It’s nice,” said Crowley, leaning on the counter. “that we have no allegiances to anybody but ourselves anymore. It’s like,” he said hesitating, “It’s like being free.” He looked so lost and helpless, Aziraphale thought, trying to loiter around as normal and failing miserably.

He could only say, “Oh, darling boy … I know.” 

It was then that Crowley gave up on his assumed dignity and fell once more, this time into Aziraphale’s arms. They embraced one another tightly, and stood like that, wrapped round one another, for a long time, Aziraphale tucking Crowley’s head over his own shoulder, and Crowley crying gently. 

“Crowley, dearheart, you’re going to set me off too,” said Aziraphale. “Is it your best friend, the one you lost? Let’s go into the living room, and you sit down, and you can tell me all about them. How about that, eh?”

“Oh, blast your innocence, Aziraphale,” he said, though with no edge in his voice. “It’s _you_ that I lost. You’re my best friend. I came by your bookshop and it was burnt down and you were gone. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know you’d been drafted, angel, I just knew you weren’t with me, and I thought I’d never see you again. And I thought we’d failed, and I wouldn’t even have you to run away with.”

 _I knew that,_ Aziraphale chided himself, _I knew that and I didn’t let myself think it. I am a coward, though not in the way heaven thought._ Aziraphale led Crowley to the couch and pressed a cup of tea into his hand. He felt around for something to say. _It was kind of you to be concerned_ wouldn’t cut it. But could he risk their beautiful and only newly-declared friendship to say what he really wanted to say?

“I love you too,” he managed. “ _Love_ hardly covers it. I adore you.”

Time stopped.

Their eyes met. “At last,” said Crowley, “we’re singing from the same hymn sheet. I love you.” Then he drew nearer; now they were perhaps a half-inch apart, could feel each other’s voice when they spoke, reverberating gently in the air.

Aziraphale wiped two tears from Crowley’s eyes. “There, now. It only took us six thousand years.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley, on his half-closed lips, softly and firmly at the same time. Like an angel would kiss. All thought stopped in Crowley’s mind, his eyes simply closed and he began to kiss back. It was like manna from heaven – actually, it was better, much better. The Israelites had been in the desert for forty years, but they had been there for millennia. Crowley’s rebellious mouth tasted Aziraphale for the first time, famished. His mind was about to short-circuit from the joy, and it’s fortunate he had been sitting down, because he was so weak bodily that he couldn’t have stood up even had Armageddon begun all over again. Aziraphale made a sound not unlike a whimper through their kiss, which didn’t make his thoughts any more coherent, and pulled Crowley ever closer to him by his jacket lapels, needily. Aziraphale felt light-headed, as though he would float away if he didn’t hold on. Crowley pulled him down, a reassuring anchor. Aziraphale’s mouth was so open, receptive, and he tasted _immaculate_. Crowley thought he might die of happiness, or relief, or overexcitation. Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in his hands in an aspect of prayer and leaned into their kiss. And Crowley responded, trailing his hand through the angel’s hair and giving it an affectionate tug, and leaving a steadying hand on Aziraphale’s back.

The kiss seemed to go on for a small, modest, eternity; it had sixty centuries to begin compensating for. When they paused for breath, Crowley still kept Aziraphale braced to him, reluctant to lose the touch he had been so starved for. For his part, Aziraphale was happy to stay close – it let him dip his head to kiss Crowley once again, silently, on his cheek. They could hardly tell where one of them ended and the other began. For a long while, there wasn’t anything to say. They just stayed close, heads resting on each other's shoulders, eyes shut. With a glance from Aziraphale, the fire in the grate sprang to life, bathing them in some much-longed-for warmth.

“Dearheart?” said Aziraphale.

“Yes, angel?”

“I’m sorry it took so long. To say _I love you._ ”

“Oh, oh,” Crowley said, hugging him close, “I’d rather chat with you at a bus stop in the rain than do anything else in the world. Don’t think of our centuries as friends as squandered time. I loved it. The last twelve years have been strange and manic, and we deserved a change from it. But we had many good times together before that.”

“Barring the fourteenth century,” said Aziraphale.

“For the record, part of the reason I hated the fourteenth century so bitterly was because you were off gallivanting in China,”

“I missed you too, dearheart. I missed you too.” There was quietude for a moment.

“May I kiss you again?” asked Crowley, almost too under his voice to hear.

“Since when were demons so well-mannered?” replied Aziraphale, and kissed Crowley long and hard on the lips.

Their conversation went on long into the early hours. It was Aziraphale, as the host, who eventually suggested that, seeing as they had gone native completely, a bit of shuteye might have been in order; this was approaching two o’clock. Crowley had been looking more and more sleepy and eventually Aziraphale realised that there was a cure for it.

“I haven’t figured out the attraction of that one yet,” said Crowley, pretending to pretend. 

“Crowley, dearheart. You’re going to drop down with exhaustion. Please, you need to get some sleep.”

Crowley tried his best not to yawn, but didn’t succeed; he simply nodded through it.

Aziraphale brought a little penny candle with them up the wooden staircase. He was going to try and pretend that there was another room for him, and then take a nap on the couch, but Crowley saw through that plan immediately. He let himself be led unprotesting to a lovely bedroom in the airy and high-ceilinged attic, but pulled Aziraphale gently towards what was obviously his bed once there. The angel blushed bright enough for it to be visible in the forgiving half-light, and let his hand slide out of Crowley’s until only their fingertips were interlaced, saying:

“Crowley ... it’s for you.”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Crowley evenly and kindly. “But let me sleep beside you tonight. We’re both exhausted and worried and this may be our last few days together. Stay with me.” An unspoken _please_ emanated from him. Aziraphale lay down on the simple white bed and smiled at Crowley.

“I’d like that a lot,” he said.

Brendan Behan, an acquaintance of Crowley’s, used to joke that he, Behan, slept like a baby - waking up every couple of hours looking for a bottle. Crowley _actually_ slept like a baby, hardly stirring from where he had first lain down, and breathing so regularly you could have set the world clock by it.

But Aziraphale simply rested, all the while thinking about what had happened in the previous few days and hours.

 _I love you,_ he thought firmly, looking at Crowley. _It feels right to love you._


	2. Funny How Love Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Of honourable reckoning are you both;  
>  And pity 'tis you lived at odds so long.”_
> 
> ~ _Paris_ , in ‘Romeo and Juliet’  
> William Shakespeare, 1590s

It was the morning of the 23rd of October, the day that wasn’t meant to happen. Crowley woke up instantly, going from sleep to alertness all at once, which had never happened before outside of some truly alarming circumstances. He threw a hand over the bed; Aziraphale was there, awake too.

“C’mere,” said Aziraphale, pulling him upright. Crowley immediately put his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He didn’t see the soft expression that crept onto Aziraphale’s face, but he didn’t need to, he could feel the angel relax and melt just a little bit more anytime they made contact.

“Good morning.”

“To you too,” he yawned.

“... Crowley?”

“Uh-huh, darling?”

“Let’s get up.”

Crowley made a small noise of complaint. _Let’s stay here forever,_ it said. _Who cares about anything else? I love this bed and I love you. I’ve got everything I want._

“Come now, we’ve got to win our freedom.”

Crowley sat upright. Aziraphale was right. Their respective sides would be in hot pursuit. The plans that the angels and demons were probably devising for their benefit right now would make the Old Testament look like a well-meaning moralistic kids' book.

Stretching, he forced himself to wake up, and to remember everything that had happened. Armageddon seemed distant and half-dreamt-up. Last night with Aziraphale had the quality of simple, warm reality. Aziraphale, beside him, was _true_. Feelings he had merely tolerated as unavoidable burdens for millennia, had suffocated as much as possible, now seemed to catch their breath. Crowley let his wings manifest and unfurl, and stretched them too. Aziraphale was watching him lovingly.

.

From the kitchen window, the new day looked delicate, still unsubstantial. The northern European sky was such a pale shade of blue. The light and haze of it looked like Aziraphale’s eyes, a little. London was waking up with them already, at seven o’clock. Crowley made coffee for himself and chai masala for Aziraphale, and put on toast. Aziraphale liked it with butter and honey, cloying and sticky. Just the idea made Crowley feel a little sick. _Well,_ Crowley thought, _It’d be a funny old world if we were all the same. Very funny indeed, if we were all like us._ He wondered vaguely when he started thinking of humans as ‘we.’

Aziraphale was at the door, talking away. Normally, his words ran together when he was nervous; he became more emphatic and rhetorical. Now, however, he was quite measured. It was almost more worrying.

“How long do you reckon we have, then?” he was saying. This would seem to require an answer.

“I think we have today to ourselves,” said Crowley. “But tomorrow would be unlikely. And I know Beelzebub can put up with anything but disloyalty. They know their job well, as far as the torture goes. Fire and brimstone don’t half cover it.”

“Heaven’s the same,” said Aziraphale. “Unoriginal but effective is their motto.”

“No chance of some Ineffable Divine Mercy from your lot, then?”

“I hardly think so. Only for terrified grovelling humans.”

“Ah. Yeah, I saw Gabriel. Looks like the kinda chap that’d sell his blood for someone to grovel at him.”

“You’ve gotten him in one,” said Aziraphale gloomily.

“We’ve both earned most extreme punishment, I’ve no doubt. Hellfire and holy water for us, respectively.”

“I fear so.”

“On that cheery note, would you like your breakfast?” asked Crowley.

When Saint Colmcille was asked what he would do if he knew he was going to die in a week’s time, he had replied that he would continue doing the exact same as he was doing at that moment - working the rocky soil of Iona, trying to eke out a living for the isolated Christian community there, praying thanksgiving the same as always. And that’s how Aziraphale felt in this moment - what else was there to do but to go on? The world wouldn’t miss them, after all. Only they would miss each other, perhaps Anathema and Newt would think of them from time to time, that was it.

So, yes, he would like to have breakfast with Crowley.

.

They kept themselves busy, forgetting about their own private, incoming apocalypses, mainly by talking and kissing, though not necessarily in that order. Half the day passed pleasantly in this way. A sizeable collection of blankets and cushions had ended up on Aziraphale’s floor, and, like the children they had never been, they lay around in the mess. At about half past twelve, two glasses of wine had thoughtfully appeared. Now Aziraphale was sitting so close to Crowley as to almost be in his lap, with his gaze resting on his lips. He felt the longing to kiss him again, intense enough that his mouth began to hurt. He savoured the ache for a moment, and then leaned into Crowley’s wine-stained lips, redder even than normal. Instead of assuaging his desire, the more they kissed the more he needed it. Crowley made hungry where he most satisfied, as Shakespeare wrote. He was like black nourishing earth, like the fire that purifies, like home. Crowley kissed him back with equal fervour, slightly forked tongue, slightly sharp teeth, completely breathless. Aziraphale wasn’t like redemption, nor forgiveness, nor even the hope of these; he was like the healing afterwards. Aziraphale was so familiar, so trustworthy, and so natural. Something about how Aziraphale just melted into him was making Crowley inarticulate with wonder. And neither of them could really tell which of them was doing what anymore - who felt what anymore. Every binary distinction between them blurred, effaced itself, and vanished.

The sun was well up now, and a trickle of warmth had even snuck into Aziraphale’s back room. When their kiss stopped, Crowley leaned back into the patch of sunlight thrown upon the floor, and began to recharge his heat. After a long few minutes of silence, he sat up.

“Alright, let’s be grown-ups for a while,” he said.

Aziraphale gave him a tender look of amused disapproval which seemed to say both _you don’t have to tell that to me, dear,_ and _was that kiss too PG for you, then? We can remedy that later._

Crowley helped Aziraphale up after him, purely out of chivalry, and they sat down at the either side of the table.

“So, did you ever hear anything about the plans for after the Apocalypse?” Crowley asked.

“No. I never thought about too much, tell you the truth,” said Aziraphale.

“We knew neither the day nor the hour,” said Crowley, “wherein all this would happen. Right?”

“They don’t tell me anything, anyway.”

“Well, I reckon, that, in our own small way, us two are something of fifth columns in our respective sides,” said Crowley. “We’re the ones who could stop it all going down the drain. We might have to save the world for real, this time. God knows humanity wouldn’t stand a chance against the combined forces of heaven and hell; they can barely manage to keep themselves alive as it is. There’ll be a trial, and perhaps a few weeks for Heaven and Hell to mobilise, but then, a second run at Armageddon.”

“I don’t think She does actually,” said Aziraphale slowly.

“What?”

“God. I don’t think She _does_ know. About anything that’s going on. I simply couldn’t get in contact with Her the other day.”

“She doesn’t exactly pick up on the first ring with me, either, you know,” said Crowley gently. Something whispered to him _Look, you’ve corrupted a perfectly good angel, they can’t even pray anymore - do you have to degrade everything just to bring them down to your level?_ It was a brief moment, and Crowley brushed it off. No time for beating himself up, there was already a queue for that privilege.

“No, this was different. Metatron simply refused to put me through. I know I’m only a Principality, but _everyone’s_ meant to be able to talk to God, surely?”

“It doesn’t sound good, I agree,” said Crowley. “So who’ll be at the trial?”

“Gabriel, anyway. You?”

“A Duke of Hell. It should be Beezlebub.”

“Blast it. If only we could swap places.” said Aziraphale.

“Watch your fucking language, mate,” said Crowley offhandedly. “And yes, I mean, I could possess you, but as you said before ...”

“Angel and demon in the same body.” 

“Probably explode,” they said together, somberly.

“Exactly.”

Then Aziraphale looked at Crowley with the blank look of someone who’s still trying to work out if what they’re about to say makes an iota of sense. He said it anyway.

“We have to, each of us, go back to head office. And we’ll be executed ...”

“Yeaaah,” said Crowley, wondering where on Earth Aziraphale was going with this.

“With methods that would be harmless to our, erm. Opposite number.” Aziraphale paused. Them, with frightening suddenness, he banged the table with his fist. Crowley tried to pretend he hadn’t jumped.

“We _can_ swap places!” he said.

And he was going to explain it to Crowley, but his companion had gotten there only a beat after Aziraphale. He remembered the feeling of their two souls mixing, just from a kiss. Humans were too tightly glued to their souls to loosen them without coming close to Death. But even six thousand years is temporary for an angel, or a demon, and their souls were often only too happy to stretch their legs a bit after so much time in the one body. If they needed a bit more practice at this strange supernatural intimacy, then so much the better.

Because even tiny moments can be important, even if they’re just about simple affection. After all, hadn’t Aziraphale and Crowley spent twelve year trying to steer affairs with every divine intervention and hellish wile at their disposal, only to do all the real work in a few stolen seconds that nobody else even lived through? Surely, then, a quiet, unobserved kiss could also save the world? Or at least a world?

“I don’t know whether it’ll work,” said Aziraphale, “maybe we’ve been too long in our respective bodies to be able to fool them. But ...”

“We have to try,” they said together.

Crowley raised his hand and Aziraphale mirrored him. Their fingers and then their palms touched; there was an almost imperceptible tingling as the edges of their souls flowed to meet one another and then joined, like two soap-bubbles that had collided, and somehow survived. Now it was inevitable. Either they would pay the ultimate penalty, or they would pay it for each other. And all they could do was hope that there would be an _after_.

.

Crowley found himself tied to a chair, in a room that looked like it was made of raw firmament. When he had been helping to create the stars, he had made sure to use every colour imaginable, storing up pigments for nebulae that would only form millions of years later. Somewhere along the line, after 1900, probably, Heaven had decided that empty whiteness was the most appropriate expression of their identity. In a way, he was home. But he hated it already, and had a suspicion that meeting these angels wouldn’t improve on his first impression.

He had been alone for about twenty minutes, apprehensive, when Gabriel and Co. appeared.

No pleasantries were exchanged.

“So, with one act of treason, you averted the war,” said Gabriel, and the phrase _averted the war_ had never been said with such chilly disappointment before. He sounded like he had been furious for long enough that there was no longer any real need to yell or scream. His anger was tamped down, reconciled-to somehow.

Aziraphale would have mentioned something about the greater good, so Crowley tried to. 

“Don’t talk to me about the greater good, sunshine, I’m -“ and Crowley missed the next bit, and what exactly Gabriel was (although he could supply a few choice adjectives, given the chance), because of a wave of inarticulate loathing that crashed into him. _How dare you take that tone with my angel,_ he thought. _What do you know about goodness, about humanity, about anything?_

Forgetting himself, or rather, forgetting him being Aziraphale: “Aren’t we meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake?” Funny, he could swear by Heaven with Aziraphale’s mouth without any battery acid and brimstone aftertaste. That was promising enough.

“The greater good was that we were finally going to get to settle things with the other side,” said Gabriel.

_Six thousand years old, saying things a teenager would consider themselves gone beyond - ‘settle things,’ as if it was a playground spat, not trillions of humans, animals, plants, being consigned to the scrapheap. Getting even really was more important to them. Who had left them in charge?_

He wasn’t sure how the angels couldn’t feel the contempt coming off him in waves as he slid back into Aziraphale’s usual manner, saying: “It was lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion.” _Like one where I’m killing you slowly, maybe,_ he continued internally.

“Shut your stupid mouth,” said Gabriel, “and die already.”

 _So. This is how they treat him_ , he thought. _Fuck them all. To Hell and back_. Then he stepped into the fire.

.

Aziraphale was more nervous, and it was doing his performance wonders. Dark corridors, a smell of stagnant water somewhere (everywhere), his hands bound tightly in front of him. This was too note-perfect a Hell in the same way that the king’s crown in a fantasy movie put the true royal jewels to shame. If Dante was alive in the 21st century, this is how he would have written ‘the Inferno,’ and London-mangled English too. He felt actively repulsed by it. _Even if this doesn’t work_ , he said, _at least I will never have to let Crowley experience this place again_.

“Bring in the traitahhh,” said Beelzebub, in a piercing Cockney accent. The throne was quite different to the one at Crowley’s place. It hurt to look at too long, for a start. It seemed to warp the air around a bit, as if even the light was trying its best to avoid going next nor near it.

“We built this place for you specialayyy,” they were saying. “It shall be the place of your trial, and the place of your destruction.”

Imitating Crowley’s drawling to a tee, Aziraphale merely said “Guys ... You shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble.” _Was that too like something he himself would say, was it un-Crowley in content,_ he worried? None of the demons seemed to notice anything amiss. 

Aziraphale watched Michael pour out holy water into a grimy bathtub. The demons around him cringed back at the thought of its touch, but soon it was almost full, and Michael melted back into the shadows. The respective roles were intoned, the test-sacrifice was made, everyone on edge except himself.

Hastur listed his crimes, from vain sunglasses right up to murder and high treason. And it was all Aziraphale could do to ask to take off his jacket without smiling, because, now that there were no more choices to make, now that he could only go ever onward on the path he had started, an eerie calm had descended. Humans tend to find that the moments before battle are worse than the fighting itself. When Aziraphale had been a soldier, the battalion was never as harmonious as just before they attacked: they were all so certain that they were on the right side that it left no room for the slightest doubt. It was the same now. Steely, wordless determination slunk underneath his insolent last words: “Let’s get this over with, then.” — He was dangerously close to having fun.

.

There was, of course, a nightingale singing in Berkley Square. There was, of course, a table free at the Ritz, and there was, of course, a world to be toasted. There was only one thing missing: peace on Earth. But it was not yet quite November - they still had some time.

.

Crowley dragged Aziraphale back to his own flat. They were both tipsy, and both over-energetic. Upstairs — lovely bed, still unmade. 

“You’re messy,” giggled Crowley, at first meaning Aziraphale’s ever-so-slightly drunken state, but then soon pulling at his tie and collar too.

Aziraphale took his hand away, and undid the buttons himself, albeit slowly. 

He let his wings stretch and small glowing patches appeared on his skin, clustered especially around his collar bones and neck, with two slunk about his temples. They had soon resolved themselves into skyblue eyes. Power radiated off him, pulsing and restless.

Enthralling, as in ‘makes-a-slave-of-you,” that’s was he was. _I belong to you,_ thought Crowley, and then heard himself say it aloud: “I belong to you.” Aziraphale’s hand went to Crowley’s shoulderblades and pulled him close. “I belong to _you_ ,” he said, beginning to sound breathless.

Crowley tugged at the side of Aziraphale’s waistband, without making a sound. His eyes said _Please?_ , though, _Is it okay?_

“Ah,” Aziraphale withdrew a little. “But we’re not married yet.”

Crowley, if possible, fell more in love. The sheer angelic innocence of it all was one thing; Aziraphale’s nonchalant use of the word ‘yet,’ was quite another, and one that he was going to need some time to process later. 

From thin air he plucked a ring, of such pure gold as to almost be too soft, with a little charm on it to protect it from the next six thousand years’ worth of wear. Aziraphale gasped. A snake, so finely etched that it was hardly visible, encircled it. It would only be weeks later, when he took it off for the first time, that he would notice the other etching - an inscription on the inside which read: _liberté ne peur_ : ‘freedom, not fear’.

There was no question in Aziraphale’s mind what he would do for Crowley’s ring. He opened his palm to reveal a simple gold circlet, inlaid with hundreds of tiny, dazzling rubies, some a rich scarlet, others shading towards black, though never quite getting there. Crowley looked up only after a few seconds, and hesitated before taking it. Something in him wanted to say something foolish like _Is that for me?_. He took it reverently from Aziraphale’s hand and slid it on. He knew about jewels, a little. The ruby symbolised passionate love, and nobility of character, but it was also a ward from the evils of the world. This was a more than love letter, it was a oath of guardianship too. Aziraphale watched as Crowley turned it in his hands, entranced.

“I want to spend everything moment we have together,” he said.

“I love you,” said Crowley.

They kissed again. 

“I love you,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley pulled off his black jacket and then kissed Aziraphale again, slightly fanged teeth grazing his lips. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley’s form and then leant into their kiss once again. He could feel that Crowley wanted him, and he knew that he desired nothing more himself than to finally lie down with his companion. Aziraphale reciprocated the kiss twofold; Crowley, trembling slightly, raised his hands to the side of the angel’s throat. High sounds so little as to be almost inaudible escaped his own mouth.

They kissed for a long while. Aziraphale placed an immaculate hand on Crowley’s waist, over his light t-shirt. Crowley’s eyes flicked to Aziraphale’s, neither protesting or requesting. Aziraphale slowly pushed the t-shirt up, very gently.

“Nm-” said Crowley. He was holding entirely still.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, his hand pausing, “Crowley? Is it alright?”

“Yes ...”

“Go on,”

“Yes-ish,” he admitted. “I dunno.”

“Crowley that’s _fine_ , we can stop, you know?” said Aziraphale. He stroked Crowley’s hair lightly.

“But y-...”

“Look at me, please, dear.”

Crowley obliged, but he was blushing a little under Aziraphale’s eyes.

“We’re going to lie down and go to sleep, alright?”

“Can we?” 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Aziraphale patted the bed beside him. “Here now,”

Crowley lay down, very close to his angel and his heat.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, sounding as though he might be about to cry. “I started it ... ‘s’not fair on you. M’sorry,”

“Whatever for, sweetheart? Come here,” Aziraphale put an arm around him. “Don’t you be sorry about anything, do you hear? I love you.”

Crowley buried his head in Aziraphale’s soft pyjama top and sobbed gently. After a few seconds, muffled, came a response:

“I love you too, Aziraphale,”

How strange it was to say that after thousands of years. What a bizarre few days they’d had, with Apocalypses and a first tentative, terrified kiss, and now they got to share a bed. Crowley would never quite understand how he had been so lucky. The last week had been so different to what came before that his models simply broke down. There was one thing of which he was certain, however: if he never moved again from this spot, he could live very happily.

Just thinking about it, his eyes got a tiny bit damp. He held Aziraphale closer. _He surely couldn’t feel my tears?_ he thought. 

Aziraphale certainly could, but he didn’t know what to do about them, except he felt that Crowley was overwrought and probably just needed to be quiet for a while. Aziraphale placed a light hand on Crowley’s shoulder and soothed him.

They both fell asleep very quickly.


	3. All God’s People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love is a challenge in the face of death, in the face of our inability to communicate.”
> 
> ~ Brice Parain _Entretien sur Pascal_ , 1965

The War for Earth had begun with speeches (or at least it ought to have had). They might go a little bit like this:

.

In a blank hall, in Heaven, Gabriel was stepping onto a stage, in front of a sea of steady, blank, faces. “Hell has earned every drop of our fury," he said. When he talked about anger, his voice was almost seductive. "There was one thing that was meant to be Right in this world, and they smudged it, got mud and grime all over it. How dare they ruin the unending perfection that was God’s love? Think of how beautiful and harmonious life could have been without their Rebellion - a world with no sin, no battles to be fought, and no sides at all." He paused. "Everything that is wrong with reality is the fault of a few angels who decided they were better than everyone else, and now is our chance to show them that Good can, and always will, beat Evil. I expect us to do our solemn duty, and do it well. The reward is eternal peace." Gabriel’s words were met with studied approval, mechanical clapping. But he knew that he didn’t need to convince his audience. He was preaching to the choir, the Heavenly Host. They were all completely fanatical already, on the surface, and most of them were sufficently convinced that they believed, that they were pretty fanatical deep down too. He bowed cursorily and left the platform. The hall was deathly silent, the noise of ten thousand angels who were, for the moment, without orders.

.

Hell had no pretensions towards righteousness, because they didn't need to have. If there was one piece of sincerity in Hell, it was their anger at Heaven.

“Demons! Atten-SHAN! The End is Nigh!” Beelzebul seemed hyperactive, twitchy. “Heaven have lorded it over us for far too long. They are fundamentalists, they are _bullies_. They're holier-than-thou. What did they do to deserve this, except making a show of their cringing submission? Imagine a world run by them what runs Heaven. Were we created to be slaves? No! We have a war to win, still, and we are going to slaughter them." They paused. "I don’t need to convince you, though, do I? Because we’ve all been done wrong by Heaven! And the hour has come for revenge!!!” A sort of low chanting began to fester in the air, like that of the Millwall crowd at a match vs West Ham. Beelzebul grinned manically. This was just too easy.

.

In Heaven, uniforms were being handed out. Ineffable bureaucratic systems ground into motion (actually, most bureaucratic systems, even human ones, are pretty ineffable, but Heaven had perfected the art of opacity and unaccountability), doing what they had been created to do just over six thousand years before. There were many supplies necessary. Each soldier would be in receipt of a smart white uniform, in a style with resembled nothing so much as the garb of the French Empire’s infantry. The habit-veste and the epaulets were all gold. Human regiments used colour-coding on details like these to distinguish companies and ranks, but it wasn’t necessary for angels. No-one would mistake an archangel for a dominion, or a virtue for a cherub. Besides, every angel in the army was, at least nominally, an equal slave. Swords were issued, but no shields.

Hell was arguably more efficient. They knew that every demon already had a respectable personal armoury. They handed out conscription notices and left everyone to their own infernal devices. One thing could be said with certainty - there were many fewer demons than there were angels. Tattered suits and black robes were _de rigeur_ , but impractical. Armour was willed from firmament. There was plenty fire about to forge weapons - they were made by wraiths, cambions, and humans who had sold their souls. Hell had tasted blood already, and thirsted for more. Abaddon was gripped with a singleminded focus on the destruction of Heaven. Ba’al, Shaytaan and Paimon conferred on the great plain of Asphodel, and agreed to lead their troops into battle within the week.

.

Meanwhile in England, Aziraphale and Crowley were keeping themselves entertained. Aziraphale hadn't stopped smiling, it seemed, since they'd kissed. Every so often, he would catch himself and try to plaster a pensive expression over it; a 'the world is still in grave danger, you know,' type of expression. It never lasted long. Truth be told, they both felt like they could deal with any Armageddon that reared its head - now there was something for the CV. He was spending a lot of time in Crowley's company, and he was spending the rest trying to sell some of his books to good homes, and unmaking a lot of affable rivals in the shadowy world of antique bookmongering in the process. Crowley sprawled on the floor, flicking through the books.

"Now, that _is_ strange," said Aziraphale quietly, almost to himself.

Crowley looked up from his page. "Mm?"

"I don't remember this book." He was holding a leather-bound volume that looked to be from the Renaissance era.

"Well, there's bound to be a few you don't remember, after six thousand years, angel. It's a bloody miracle you can even find space for them all."

Aziraphale looked unexpectedly guilty at the latter comment. "There may have been some frivolous miracles cast at some point," he admitted. "Specifically when it comes to the backroom. Binding doesn't fix itself, but ... I know _all_ my books. It's not that I can't recall where I came across it, or how long I've had it or something. I actually don't recognise it at _all_."

"What's'called?"

Aziraphale opened the book, faded gilt lettering gleaming in the light for a split second. His eyes followed writing on the page. After a moment, he turned over the leaf. His eyes widened.

"Enchiridion militis Christiani: Verbis aliquid de Officorum Caeremonialium Piorum," he said reverently. "Handbook of the Christian Soldier."

"That Eramus stuff? About being polite or whatever? Cool."

"It is _not_ about just that, Crowley, as you are well aware. It's about moving _beyond_ mere ritual and theological politesse to _actual faith_. And it's some of the best writing they had that century, or any other one. But this isn't that one, actually. At least, it's not _just _'The Handbook of the Christian Solider,'" he said.__

Crowley was picking himself up to come over, but Aziraphale came to him, practically waltzing, and knelt down.

"It's a _sequel_ " he breathed, "that doesn't exist."

Crowley looked at him, and met his happy eyes. Crowley smiled encouragingly.

"That's lovely, angel," he said, with such real feeling that Aziraphale couldn't object. He just shook his head slightly, pretending at despair, and laughed.

.

Later on that evening, with soft golden sunlight filtering into the bookshop, Crowley was lying flat-out on the rug in the middle of the floor, looking with half-closed eyes at the impossibly clear glass of the skylight, colours scattered around his head and on his face like a messy halo. He had put on music - Vltava from _Má vlast_ , by Smetana. 'Thinking' would have a been a generous word for what he was doing, but the name 'vlast' was so suggestive. What was a homeland, for anyone? But for a demon? Even worse. Neither Heaven nor Hell sufficed. Only in the last three hundred years had the thought been slowly crystalising in Crowley's head that Earth was a home. The life of a happy immortal on Earth could be _dunya_ and _akhirah_ all at once. He glanced at Aziraphale, whose head was still stuck in his new/old book. He had seemed to be just excited earlier - wholesome and simple. But now he seemed tense, too, he face set in seriousness. 

_Perhaps the Latin is difficult?_ , he thought. But that was a silly thought - Aziraphale had never shown anything but the most perfect faculty with all languages, and Latin was one of those that he knew most intimately. Words for stars and mornings and hillsides came to his mouth so easily, in Latin. Latin kept a noble shimmer of paganism and antiquity when Aziraphale spoke it. Astri, manes, collis ... it was very like being in love. 

"Good book, angel?" he asked gently. The record ran to its end

"Yes, but I don't like it," he replied. "Such troubling implications."

Aziraphale wasn't usually sniffy about religious books. This was a person with a _collection_ of Bibles with vulgar misprints in the text and angry ranting in the margins. 

"The original book was all about how people needed to avoid getting so preoccupied with ritual and technical precision in worship that they forgot to work on their belief. But here he's talking about _exceptions_ to that, and good philosophy can't have exceptions, not really, you know. He says that ceremonial magic is the only way to achieve certain things. Basic things. Oh, it's not right with me at all."

"Sweetheart, that's just Catholicism, surely? If a priest messes up a line in the service, the Sacrifice of the Mass is still valid, but you still need to actually _do _the M-"__

__"No, dear. I wish that was the case. He argues that the ritual is more important, if you want to commune with God properly. That faith is alright, but it only gets you to the lowest level of faithfulness. A fundamental requirement, but a trivial one. Oh, god ..."_ _

__"Please don't worry about it, angel," said Crowley, "and let's have supper. Out."_ _

__Aziraphale hummed in half-disapproval. "Yes, of course, dear. Where were you thinking of?"_ _

__Of course, Crowley hadn't thought that far ahead, but he managed to suggest that they pay a visit to a nice Vietnamese place that he had vaguely seen a couple of days ago. A new place. And Aziraphale had to smile. He didn't quite understand why Crowley always seemed so genuinely eagar to go out, as he ate very little. In fact, he really didn't eat at all, most of the time. A tentative experimental bite from Aziraphale's fork a couple of times a century seemed to suit him fine. But he never seemed awkward, sitting in a restaurant with nothing in front of him but a glass of wine or a cup of coffee. No, in fact, he seemed indulgent and content._ _

__"Sounds lovely, dear."_ _

__"You'll tell me more about the book. Or what we're going to see at the theatre next. Or whatever you want."__

__***_ _

__Crowley was looking at the menu, which was strange. And he asked for food too, proper food. Pho, to be precise. It was fair to say that Aziraphale had never seen Crowley order a main course - or actually eat anything hot. He looked at Crowley with a curious smile. How his friend could keep surprising him after such a long time was a mystery to him. Friend? Oh - fiancé, now. How blindingly, incomprehensibly, wonderful. How incredible._ _

__"Pretty ineffable, if you ask me," said Crowley, happily playing with the chopsticks on the table._ _

__"What?" said Aziraphale, a little sharply, startled. "I beg your pardon?"_ _

__"The whole mess with ritual and belief and stuff. Bet God doesn't even care."_ _

__He saw Aziraphale's expression._ _

__"Not in a bad way, angel. I'm saying, I bet that both are good. They make people feel better about themselves and the world. Humans are always tying themselves in knots about theology, but we both know it's much more banal that all that lovely musing they've done would suggest. This is the same. Nothing to worry about, now. We've had the ascendancy of the Antichrist, and the Time of Great Tribulations. And what did it come down to? Some kid telling the Adversary that he ~wasn't his real dad. All the ceremonial preparations in the world couldn't have created that."_ _

__After this speech, Crowley became conscious that he'd been talking on a while, and fell abruptly quiet._ _

__Aziraphale was looking at him with a potent mixture of love and admiration and unbearable tenderness._ _

__"Oh, _Crowley_ ," he said, beaming. "You can be so philsophical. You're right - thank you."_ _

__"M'not philosophical," countered Crowley automatically. "Not on purpose, anyway."_ _

__Their food came, hot and very vibrant._ _

__"Bon appetit, dear," said Aziraphale, passing no comment about Crowley's foray into eating._ _

__"Same," he said absentmindedly, poking at his noodle soup. He took an adventurous spoonful of soup, and simply started to glow._ _

__"Oh," he said, "I get it."_ _

__Aziraphale collapsed in laughter. "You're very late to the party on this one, darling."_ _

_Darling_. There he went with that word again. A double diminutive of "dear," and it should have been awful and cloying. But, G- Someone, he loved it. _Say that again,_ he thought. _Keep saying that and never stop._

____"I can call you 'darling' as often as you want, Crowley," Aziraphale said._ _ _ _

____Crowley stared at him in terror._ _ _ _

____"You're an open book, Crowley," said Aziraphale, and lent over, and brushed a kiss against his cheek._ _ _ _

____._ _ _ _

____Lord Beelzebub was enjoying their evening as well. There was quite a lot more torturing going on, but that couldn't be helped. It was arguably a distraction from the wider campaign, but it didn't hurt for the cambions to be reminded of their place every once in a while. Besides, making the lowest demons assist them placed them within a healthy proximity to suffering, which was proving a very effective motivation for them to improve their service. Of course, it wasn't the same without Gabriel and Uriel there too, providing encouragement and suggestions. Soon enough, they would be reunited, however, and Heaven would stand little chance of survival in the battle that would follow. The unquestioning and unenthusiastic celestial infantry would be easily slaughtered by the forces of Hell led by an Archangel. Having two traitors almost seemed unfair. _Well,_ reflected Beelzebub, gearing up for another lash of the whip. _There were many things that were unfair_. _ _ _ _

____._ _ _ _


End file.
